Chapter 7
I stare at the box I shoved into the back of my closet—the one I slapped a label on that reads The Old Me in red marker. As if that could contain her.
Honestly, it should say The Young Me. Who didn't measure life in milestones, but in moments that made me feel alive.
The smell hits first. That mix of my old perfume and night air from open fields when I didn't know how my life was going to unfold.
Things start landing on the bed as I excavate the time capsule. Cheap jewelry. A silver leather jacket, like it was forged from liquid mercury. And my yellow glitter heels.
You know how rich people buy a canvas with two stripes and call it a statement piece? These are that, but better. They add four inches and the lost feeling of Emma that didn't shrink.
I put them on and click across the apartment to reach my walk-in closet.
Most clothes would fit because, well—skirts, sweaters, neutrals that Ben would probably call "pensioner chic." But boy doesn't know that I have a surprise for him today.
I kept that red sundress from our last night. Tight with frilled hem barely grazing mid-thigh. A girl and woman wrapped in one. The girl who kissed him. For nine hours.
If he remembers the dress at all...
At 11:55 a.m. sharp, someone knocks like they already know they're being let in. I almost jump out of my skin.
When I open, Ben's leaning against the frame, like a shot straight from a cologne ad.
Black short-sleeved tee, dress pants, a jacket slung over his shoulder, sunglasses slipped halfway down his nose, and his raven hair falling into his face.
I have to bite my lip to keep it from falling.
His mouth drops, though.
"Damn," he says, eyes dragging down, pausing at my legs. "You look exactly like the last time I saw you."
Something blooms in me—so he does remember.
Still, I bite back my smile and play it cool. "How do you remember what I wore?"
His eyes lock on mine, the casual charm turning into intensity. "Some nights you don't forget."
Damn, that kicks me right where it shouldn't. I hope my cheeks don't go as red as the fabric.
Ben runs his eyes over me again, curious now. "Is it the same dress?"
I sober up quickly and shake my head. "No. Don't think so."
His smirk deepens. "You sure? Looks pretty much the same to me."
"I doubt your memory's that good," I snap.
Before he says anything else, I brush past him and peek into the corridor, even though I know no one's there. No one else lives on my floor.
"Seriously, Ben, what the hell are you doing here? You can't come here. And definitely not saying that."
"Relax," he says, like that's doable in his presence and strolls in, self-invited. "André said he's out until five."
I pause. "What? Who's out 'til five?"
He rolls his eyes, makes an annoyed gesture with his hand. "Your dear husband."
And now I'm even more confused. I knit my brows. "Okay? Who is André?"
Hands sunk deep in his pockets, he walks the short hallway into the kitchen. A quick, judging once-over. "You don't know the name of the receptionist?"
I keep the door ajar as I face him. "How does the receptionist know when my husband gets home? And how did you get him to tell you?"
"We're friends."
I close the door and make a face. "Friends? Since when? You moved in barely two weeks ago."
"Since I got him pills for his wife's insomnia," he explains, voice casual. "Poor guy couldn't sneeze past ten. She sent me a personal thank-you note because their relationship got better."
I walk toward the kitchen island where he's standing, shaking my head, amused despite myself. "That's so you. You do realize people don't just hand over that kind of intel, right?"
"I guess." He lifts a shoulder, indifferent, and eases onto the barstool, stretching his long legs. Then—a scan around our immaculately staged apartment, and he says, "Wow. Lisa would love your place, by the way."
Like we've skipped months ahead to the part where I'm fine with the fact he's married.
I'm trying—really trying—nodding like it doesn't gut me.
I know he has a woman upstairs who's his home now. They picked the color of walls together and cook dinner together with inside jokes and pasta sauce spilled everywhere.
I haven't found that grace yet, though. Not even close.
"I told her I've had my fill of hospitals," he says, fiddling with his watch to see what's happening behind my face.
I dart around the corner toward the closet.
"Sorry," his voice drifts from the kitchen.
"It's fine," I call, yanking my bag down with unnecessary force.
"Just not my thing," he calls.
"Mine either," I murmur to myself, to the dark walls, to whatever in me still thinks this is a good idea.
When I come back, he’s in my office, standing by my white board, fingers tracing the spines of my books with that slow intentional touch.
I realize he's towering over my shelves, and seeing him standing in the window like that makes something in me reel.
He's in my house. How did that even happen?
If Richard walked in right now, there'd be no excuse good enough to explain this. I mean, what would I even say? It would turn catastrophic.
And yet, I'm obviously not rushing him because I always had a soft spot for Ben Bellini and I doubt that'll ever change.
"100 Love Sonnets," he reads one of the titles before he turns to me, eyes softening. "This room is entirely you."
I nod with a shameless smile, since I always felt like I was a coffee stain on marble in here. I'm not messy but definitely not organized.
He pauses at the photo of me with Mom in our chalet that sits on my table.
"Is it better with her?" His voice is even, but I can sense the bitter undercurrent.
He knows my full history, every scar, and even though he never said it, I know he can't stand her.
"Yeah," I say. I guess unconvincingly enough that he gives me a skeptical brow, so I smile and try to sound steadier. "Really. She's trying, at least."
"She better be proud of you." His eyes narrow on the photo, as if he's expecting her to come out and nod like a good girl. "She didn't believe in your writing. You proved her wrong. Big time."
I smile. I like it when he acts like my personal knight.
"I don't expect compliments from her. Not now. Not ever."
He drags in a breath and releases it. Bites the inside of his cheek and looks away, probably to hide the eye-roll I know is there.
When he turns back, his chin tilts toward another photo. "Is that Lucy?"
I nod. Second grade, Lu braiding my hair with her colorful shoelaces because I was always on the receiving end of her creativity.
He exhales a short amused laugh through his nose. "She used to hate me."
"She kind of hates everybody," I quip as drift toward my desk. "But yeah, she knew you were an ass to me."
His brows pull tight and he pauses on me before his tone comes out sharper. "And you weren't to me?"
I cross my arms and purse my lips. "You were worse."
He cocks a brow. "How do you quantify that?"
I tick them off on my fingers. "Volume. Intensity. Number of curse words."
He sniffs a laugh, half-amused, half-irritated, and studies me a beat before he says, "What about patience?"
My brows shoot up and I blink at him, incredulous. "You want to talk about patience?"
He opens his mouth, about to say something but I cut him off with my hand and shake it off, including that fury that lodged in too fast. "No. We're not doing this, Ben. Come on. We have to go." I rush to the kitchen.
He's right behind me, his finger tapping on the tray full of muffins. "Aren't we taking these?"
"Oh. I didn't know I should bake anything," I say, thrown off. "We can take them, but they're gluten-free."
He scrunches his face and I snort a laugh. He hates eating healthy, which is outrageous considering he looks like he invented intermittent fasting.
"Also sugar-free," I add, just to tease him more.
He pulls a horrified face. "No, you didn't."
I nod slowly, dead serious. "I'm afraid I did."
He takes in a long breath, shakes his head. "Why do you have to take pleasure out of everything?"
"Hah-hah." I deadpan. "They're for Richard. He's got a sweet tooth but wants to stay in shape." My voice dips on the last words when I notice the spark in Ben's face instantly dim.
His jaw tenses and he sets the cupcake down, any interest in it gone.
There's an awkward silence.
"Should I bring anything? I have some Reese's, maybe even Butterfinger. You like those," I say then.
"No, it's fine," he says, his tone a bit flat as he aims toward the door. Then he softens a little. "What do you make for yourself?"
"Nothing special. I don't crave much."
"I noticed."
I roll my eyes. "Stop noticing bad things."
He cuts me a sideways glance. "You used to eat for two."
"Shut up," I say, shoving him out.
Luckily, the elevator arrives instantly. Mind you—that has never happened to me since the day I moved in here.
We step in and Ben presses the floor, smothering a smirk into his hand. "You'd always ask 'You don't want it anymore?'"
"Stop imitating me," I snap and pull my brows together, hollowing my cheeks in my best smoky-lounge-singer face. "I am way more sultry."
He barks a laugh, tugging my cheek out with one finger. "Sultry? You sounded like a baby bird. Which you are."
"I did not sound like a bird," I say, faux-indignant.
His grin is crooked. "You totally did. And while I was distracted, you'd take the last third of my burger."
"Because you were slow."
"Because you were shameless."
The voice announces Underground Parking and Ben walks out with that easy, unbothered gait, leaving me behind in the boxy hum of the elevator.
"Where are we going?" I call after him.
"We're driving," he tosses over his shoulder, spinning keys on his finger.
I trail after him, my yellow heels clicking against cement until he stops at a car and my step falters. I gape. "No. Freaking. Way."
Ben walks to the front of his car, finger dragging across the black gloss like he's tracing a lover's spine.
"You got the Vignale Spyder?!"
His brow flicks up, playfully, and he smiles. "You thought I was bluffing? Told you I'd get it."
The car gleams under the white halogens—sleek, refined, rare. Just like its owner.
"You used to talk about this car like it was religion." I shake my head. "This is insane."
The plate catches the light: ILBENE22.
I nod at it, smirking. "Seriously, though? You're that into yourself to make your birthday a thing?"
May twenty-second. That cusp of stubborn Taurus and unhinged Gemini.
Keeping up should come with a manual.
He snorts, unlocking the car. "It's also my Nonna's birthday. February second."
"Oh, okay..." I walk to the passenger seat, resting my hand on the open-top door. "What about Il Bene?"
He looks down for a beat, then back up at me—and suddenly his eyes are stripped of all sharpness. His voice gentles, bordering on sadness. "Short for il mio bene. That's what she called me. It also means goodness."
Oh, god. Cupid's arrow, right to the sternum.
Forget the car, forget the rebellious charm. It's the way her name gentles his shoulders, draws out that same quiet ache he had when he told me she was his first soulmate.
It was so touching, I nearly cried.
Mara told me that when Nonna died, Ben was only twelve.
He locked himself in his room and wailed for hours, his parents trying and failing to get in.
Years later, we'd be walking down some street and he'd stop mid-step, smiling, saying something smelled like violets—like her.
Once, at a bagel shop, the guy behind the counter barked, "What do you want?" Didn't even look up.
Ben tipped his head, with that don't-fuck-with-our-morning-peace look, and said, "A bit of decency, since we're spending money in your place—if you've got it. Or should I teach you?"
The guy blinked, apologized, slathered more lox on.
Ben bit into his bagel, calm as a king on his throne.
When I asked him what that was about, he shrugged. “Nonna taught me 'Have a good heart, but don’t be anyone’s freaking doormat.'” And did she teach him that one well...
"Your Nonna raised a boy with a golden heart and a wicked mouth," I say tenderly, trying to lighten him up. "And, by the way? That combo should be illegal."
I wait for the smirk, the smartass comeback—something—but he just stands there, expressionless.
And then, slowly, finally, he lets me in. Gone is Ben the flirt. Here is the little boy brimming with love too big for his chest.
"Thanks," he says, voice low. "That means more than you know."
My knees almost buckle as I stare at him, wanting to stop time, freeze him like this forever.
But before I can even blink, he slides into the driver's seat, pulling the door shut with a loud thud.
"So?" He throws an arm over the scarlet leather and looks at me through those thick lashes like none of it happened.
"Get in, baby bird."